


Dusk or Dawn

by 28ghosts



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-typical substance use, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-04-06 09:38:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19060042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/28ghosts/pseuds/28ghosts
Summary: In the fall of 1875, a third bounty hunter finds him. This one’s named Goodnight Robicheaux, and Billy doesn’t kill him.





	Dusk or Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merle_p](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/gifts).



> Happy fandom5k, recip! I loved your thoughts and prompts on The Magnificent Seven, and tried to bring a few things together. I hope you enjoy this!

In October of 1874, three men working for the Northern Pacific Railway are crushed to death by a rockfall set off by dynamite. They die quickly, at least. Come November there are slower deaths. The flu sweeps through their tents, and the man who will later go by Billy Rocks yet spends three days trying to work while racked with fever. He keeps to himself. Knows enough Mandarin to ask after some of the men who die. There’s always death on the railroad tracks, always more work to do, always earlier they can wake and later than can sleep. Pay is scant for immigrant workers; the white men get double wages. Winter sets in. Half a dozen men die in a tunnel collapse. Some of them slowly, probably.

Usually Billy is too tired to hate it. He sleeps as deeply, at night, as he ever has. He saves money, is unobtrusive, stays out of trouble. In December, one of the supervisors shoots a man in the head for spitting at him. Overnight more men die, but they do die quickly, if only because Billy doesn’t like letting anyone hold him up. A few supervisors, a few guards. He steals a horse and leaves.

Billy goes south. Eventually there’s not just tracks, but there’s trains, too, and then towns. He sleeps lightly, always with a weapon within reach, though no one’s come for him yet. Just a matter of time. Billy’s no fool. The NPR will post some bounty on his head, and either someone will get him, or he’ll keep on the way he has all his life: he’ll escape attention for long enough to survive.

In 1875, three bounty hunters come for him. The first finds him in northern California, in late spring, while Billy had been trying to keep his head low in a mining town not far from the railroad. He kills the bounty hunter and takes his horse, rides north for awhile. Falls in with a group of men travelling north for jobs at a cannery in Oregon, packing salmon. They teach him more Mandarin, and in turn, he blends in with them, passing through towns he’s been to before unnoticed. He works at the cannery for a few weeks. Always reeks of fish by sundown, but it’s better than the railroad.

And the second bounty hunter finds him. This man is smarter, though, doesn't barrel into town and make himself obvious. He hangs around for a few days, drinks at the same saloon that the cannery workers favor. Billy notices him anyways. Billy's got a good sense for when he's being followed, and the man's rented rooms in the same establishment, too. The bounty hunter tries to make his move early on a Sunday morning, when it's still cool and dark and Billy's just done eating breakfast. He kills that bounty hunter, too.

And leaves town on a stolen horse, heading south again, then west, towards Texas. Maybe he'll head down even further south, towards the border; maybe there, men will stop coming for him.

Summer is a relief. Nights are cold but days aren’t which means he doesn’t have to pay for a room as long as he can find somewhere shaded and safe to sleep during the day. He never sleeps well, but he never sleeps well unless his body has been pushed past exhaustion. Otherwise there are nightmares, or if there aren’t nightmares, there’s the knowing men are hunting for him. His face and his name and his bounty are posted. Best to never sleep too deep.

In the fall of 1875, a third bounty hunter finds him. This one’s named Goodnight Robicheaux, and Billy doesn’t kill him.

* * *

Billy does make it to Texas, see, and in Texas, there's a bartender who would rather not pour a drink for a paying customer who isn't white, and Billy shouldn't throw a punch, but he does. He's tired, is the thing, and short-tempered, and it's satisfying how easily men go down off of one solid punch between the eyes.

That's how Goodnight Robicheaux finds him. Soaked in cheap beer with his knuckles split open. Billy doesn't know Goodnight from Adam then, of course, just looks up from his work to see a man in gray striding through the saloon double-doors before whistling appreciatively.

"Guess I stopped in at the wrong time if I just wanted a drink," the man says to himself. He's wearing a fine sort of suit, finer than any of the other men in the bar, and has a rifle slung over his back. His beard is trimmed neatly. He scratches at its edge. "Would I be correct in assuming these...fine gentlemen have met deserving fates?" He drawls ‘fine’ like he doesn’t mean it.

Billy watches the man step delicately over a groaning body, reach over the bar for the whiskey the bartender hadn't wanted to pour for Billy at any price. The man pours two glasses and offers one.

"My name's Goodnight Robicheaux," he says. He has blue eyes that glint even in the dim of the saloon. "And I know your name already. You're a wanted man, though I suspect you knew that."

Billy takes the drink more out of numb reflex than anything else. He shouldn't. Goodnight knows who he is — another man with a warrant ready and willing to serve it — but something in Goodnight's manner is disarming.

It helps that Billy figures he could kill Goodnight easily. Goodnight looks like a man easy to kill — refined and confident in his charm, drinking amiably surrounded by men who might be dead. He has a holstered pistol, too, but he doesn't reach for it.

Then again, maybe the man's confidence is earned. Billy drinks. Might as well. He's gone through this much trouble for it, after all.

"I came here, as you've likely inferred, to serve a warrant. But I don't much feel up to trying my luck on that, not after this display." Goodnight grins lazily. One tooth is gold. "Tell me. What's your plan for getting out of this?" Goodnight draws a circle in the air with one finger. "'This' here meaning 'a saloon fulla mean drunks about to come back around with their pride injured.' You're not very subtle for a man with a price on his head, Mister Lee."

Billy glares. Goodnight's not wrong, though. There's no plan; Billy hasn't survived the past few years by planning. He notices, he reacts. "Why do you care?"

Goodnight shrugs expansively. He turns on one heel so he can rest one elbow on the bar. His drink's half-gone already. Quick drinker. "Maybe I'm curious if a man of your skillset might be willing to ride with me awhile." Goodnight tosses back the rest of his drink. His throat bobs as he swallows, and he grimaces. "Mister Lee, you gotta learn to pick fights over better alcohol. This..." He inclines his empty glass towards Billy. "...is vile stuff."

Doesn't stop him from pouring another for himself.

Someone on the ground groans and moves to stand up. Billy takes a few quick steps towards the man and kicks him in the stomach twice, hard. Goodnight laughs again.

Billy glares; Goodnight holds both hands in the air, a little apologetic. "Beg your pardon. Not laughing at you, no sir, just the poor unfortunate sonuvabitch who hasn't learned it's best to play dead in this kinda situation. Better to stay down until the dust is cleared and the bullets stop flyin', that's all."

The man's not wrong, though based on a first impression Billy wouldn't have guessed Goodnight to be the sort of man to have seen battle. Too well-dressed in his finery, like a factory owner or a rich man. But Goodnight's hands are steady as he drinks, and he keeps looking at Billy and not looking away — perhaps there's some steel to him, then.

Billy finishes his drink, drops the glass on the ground. Dusts his hands against the front of his trousers. "No plan," he says. He crouches, searches the man he'd kicked's pockets. Some coins, a deck of cards; he pockets them.

"I'm moseyin' towards Louisiana. You ever been, Mister Lee? Might find ourselves a warrant to serve, you never know."

One of the unconscious men has a knife strapped to his thigh. Billy unsheathes it and admires it. He'll take it, too.

"Rocks," he says.

"Beg your pardon?"

Billy stands. He crosses the saloon to stand in front of Goodnight. He extends a hand to shake. Goodnight takes it. His grip is firm. "Billy Rocks," he says.

"Well. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Rocks." Goodnight finishes his second drink, too. "Do you have a horse, or will you be liberating one of those from one of your...companions—” He nods, indicating the men unconscious. “—as well?"

Billy smirks and nods. He has a horse. Liberated from a different town, after a different bar fight. "I'm good."

"Delightful," Goodnight says, drawing out the first syllable. He reaches over the bar for the bottle of whiskey. "Might as well take this with us, hmm?"

* * *

And that’s how things start: ‘Goodnight’ becomes ‘Goody,’ and they never manage to deliver a warrant. Billy, though, is a fast draw, and Goody is a marvel at riling up a crowd. Easy enough to collect bets from men too arrogant to think a stranger with an accent can outdraw them, and Goody’s name carries enough weight that they only get run out of town every now and then.

Goody’s renown should be unsettling. Should be strange to travel with a man who can talk his way into or out of near anything with just his name. But it’s easy to trust Goody. Everyone finds it easy to trust Goody.

Thing is, Billy’s no more immune to Goody’s charm than anyone else. At least on his good days. Goody’s not all good days; he mutters and twitches in his sleep, sometimes, even when he’s had enough to drink that other men would be insensate. But the nights that come after Goody’s good days, that means Billy’s not the only one sleeping light, means sometimes he sleeps deep enough to get nightmares again, or to wake up rested, sometimes both.

* * *

They have a routine in bigger cities. They split up, usually, meet back at the hotel when their errands are done. If the city’s big enough to have a Chinese district, Billy goes to buy the opium cigarettes he and Goody both use to ease the shakes that come from night terrors. Goody always finds a telegraph operator — there’s a friend, Sam, he stays in touch with. Telegrams from city to city, always mentioning when they’ll be in one place for longer than a week.

Billy isn’t jealous, just curious. Who is it that Goody knows that he wants to stay in touch with? He never speaks of family, not even of comrades in arms. For all Billy can figure, Sam and himself are the only two people Goody seems to properly know.

And maybe Goody cares enough to stay in touch with Sam, but it’s Billy who he travels with. Billy makes his purchases and reminds himself of that as he wanders back to their hotel.

Not that it matters any, at all. Billy’s done fine travelling alone most of his life, and traveling with Goody is — different. Good. It’s a change of pace, someone having his back, but when this is over, Billy will be fine. Maybe Goody will settle down sometime, or catch a bullet in a bar fight, and Billy will go back to roaming on his own, always looking over his shoulder, waiting for someone to find him. He won’t expect telegrams; won’t expect to know where Goody is unless he knows where Goody’s buried.

He tells himself this, but — but. He gets used to traveling with Goody is the thing.

Goody would drink himself to death on his own. Say the wrong thing to the wrong sort of person in the wrong sort of place. He’s never without a rifle, thing is, but he and Goody wind through months together, and Billy ends up with a new bedroll, new clothes, tailored for him while Goody smoked and rambled at the man with the measuring tape, new boots; Billy outdraws a lot of men, avoids a reputation mostly by virtue of making sure Goody is the one people remember; all this, months and months of sleeping easier and easier, Goody at his back, always ready to diffuse a tense situation, insist, “No, sir, this can’t be the wanted man you’re looking for, this man is named Billy Rocks, I known him my whole life.”

All this and Billy never sees Goody pull the trigger on the rifle he’s supposed to be so famous for shooting, not once.

* * *

Before he knows it, it’s been two years, three. And in a small town in Nevada Billy can only find tobacco for purchase, so he stocks up on laudanum instead, and Goody sends Sam Chisholm a telegram saying that they’re headed for a town called Volcano Springs, and just a week later there’s a man named Joshua Faraday who says he’s been sent for them.

* * *

It’s an insane mission, and Billy has half a mind to tell Goody as much, but — why not.

The first few days in Rose Creek, Billy can’t bring himself to mind one way or another. He’s survived trickier things than this. It’s not until the mines he gets it. Feels a little bit of the same fire that Chisholm must feel. He’s never worked in a mine, but it reminds him of the railroad. The low campfires and tents and thin bedrolls, the hollow-eyed men all but too tired to work.

Billy looks them over, and he tries to imagine what this Bogue looks like, and he imagines sticking a knife between his eyes, and for a few hours it’s all he can think about.

* * *

_Wherever I go, Billy goes_. Not this time. The night before the fight, Goodnight goes, and Billy stays.

Billy stays, and even when he’s drinking whiskey from the bottle while the others try to keep up their bravado, part of him wants to leave. Sneak out in the dead of night after the others have gone to bed, find Goody wherever he’s gone.

Except every time he closes his eyes he sees the coal-dust-covered faces of the miners. And remembers all the parts of what now feels like it had been a different life.

So he stays. Gets back to the room he’d shared with Goody and finds Goody’s flask still on the windowsill. Takes a swig from it, which feels strangely intimate.

Goody will come back, he realizes suddenly, looking at his reflection in the glass. He sleeps in his clothes, flask in an inside pocket. He’s certain that Goody will come back. Goody will come back, and this will probably be the town where it all catches up to them. Goody pretending he can pull the trigger without shaking. And Billy pretending to himself this is all he wants, following Goody.

* * *

Goody comes back, screaming about a Gatling gun, and from the top of the belltower, Billy grins.

It’s not a surprise to get hit by the Gatling gun.

As far as ways to go out, this one isn’t bad.

* * *

Except he wakes up. Only long enough for someone to press water to his mouth, only long enough for the pain radiating through his side to send him sinking again into unconsciousness.

He doesn't know who's tending to him. It should alarm him, but he can barely manage to wonder.

* * *

He wakes up again and again, always briefly — shivering and soaked in sweat, sick and dizzy. Sometimes there’s someone to give him water, sometimes not. He never stays awake long enough to wonder anything besides where am I, or Goody — where’s Goody —

It makes him think of working on the railroad again, years ago now. Half-starving and worn down, in worn-out clothes, sleeping in fits, never speaking to anyone for longer than needed to get instructions. And then it’s back into the relief of unconsciousness, the quiet of it.

* * *

He wakes up, and this time there’s someone by his bedside — a woman, nervous and near.

He reaches out, and he manages to hold her by the wrist. "Goody," he says. The room is dark, lit by a single lantern, and he doesn't recognize the woman. He tries to sit up, and pain jolts through him badly enough to make the room swim around him. The woman shhs him like he's a child. "Goodnight," he insists. "Robicheaux."

Something in the woman's expression eases. "Your friend's alright, Mister Rocks." She pats his grip around her wrist, and he lets her go. "He's out guardin' the fields with the rest of the men fit to hold rifles."

He's not the only man laid up. There's a few other makeshift cots, some of them empty. The air reeks with the smell of blood and infection. Not so different from the railroads.

"You're lucky to be alive," the woman says. She lifts a cup to Billy's mouth. "Four gunshot wounds, and you've had a fever for days. Drink."

Billy drinks. Laudanum, for the pain. Sweet and spiced, but not sweet enough to mask the bite of the alcohol, the bitterness of the opium. Then she pours him water. He tries to drink slowly. His mouth is dry, and even through the pain, his stomach feels hollow and empty.

The laudanum kicks in fast. Helps he took it on an empty stomach. The pain slips away, and the walls of the room swim when he blinks. The woman feeds him crackers soaked in soup. She tends to the other men for awhile. One of them is well enough to sit up, another quiet and still even when the woman shakes him by the shoulder. Billy watches and wonders if he'll survive.

"What are they guarding the fields from?"

The woman comes back to his bedside and sits, hands in her lap. "Anything and everything.” She’s young. “Your friend Mister Robicheaux is quite the help.” She talks to him for awhile, asks him questions, makes him nod.

Goody is alive; that’s what matters most.

* * *

Billy wakes again to muffled voices. There's rays of light coming in through the wall through the bullet holes. Billy stares at them and wonders if there's a building in town that hasn't got bullet holes through one wall or another. He wouldn't bet on it.

Except this time there’s not just voices; there’s Goody, too, leaning close in, Billy can tell just from the silhouette of him, even in the dark, even with just a bit of him lit up. 

"Bogue?" is the first thing Billy thinks to ask.

"Dead’s four o'clock," Goody says. He leans back in the chair, his boots propped on the side of Billy's cot. He winces at a certain angle, seems stiff. "Buried him and most of his men in a shallow grave, so at least the wolves ain't likely to get 'em. Which is better than they deserve, I figure."

It's satisfying. He'd known Bogue had to be dead — Rose Creek wouldn't still be standing, Billy holed up in a makeshift infirmary, if Bogue wasn't. But it's good hearing it. "Who killed him?"

"Miss Cullen." Goody grins, gold tooth glinting in the dim light. "Got 'im with a rifle, and he bled out in the church."

"Not Sam." Goody had told him, that night before riding out in the dark, why Chisholm was always going to take Rose Creek or die trying.

Goody shakes his head. "He helped, though."

"And the others?"

"Sam's alright. Rode out a few days ago, promised to send word once he knows where he'll end up." Goody swings his feet off Billy's cot, lets all four legs of the chair sit on the floor properly, and his voice pitches low. "Faraday blew himself to pieces, but the Gatlin' gun, too. And someone got Horne. We buried them with the villagers who died. Lot of 'em."

Rose Creek had been empty enough before the fight. It had been a small town to start with, and plenty of villagers had left after Sam had sent the sheriff back to Bogue with what was all but a declaration of war. Billy can't blame them, not really. Men who wanted to move their families, or wives concerned for their children, business owners who could find another town less likely to end up the death of them — Billy wonders if the men who'd stayed had been the poorest of them, least able to move a few towns over without losing everything. Based on the state of them, it wouldn't be surprising.

"Bit of a ghost town now. Hell, they put me to work, which means they must be pretty desperate. Most of the farmland got hit hard by the fightin', so what's left of the crops we gotta keep an eye on. Meaning I, Goodnight Robicheaux, have been standing watch..." Goody mimes sighting down a rifle; his hands shake. "...over wheat and corn."

Goody's talking the way he does whenever he's telling stories to strangers, dramatic and larger than life. Too obviously a ploy to keep Billy distracted from the pain. Kind of reminds him of when they'd just started traveling together, when Goody would tell story after story over the fire, unbothered by Billy's feigned disinterest. "Shooting birds?" Billy asks. Doesn’t bother trying to look away. Too relieved to see Goody, to be awake, to still be alive.

"Birds, coyotes, a few wanderin' highwaymen who haven't known better than to try their luck." Goody grins. "Say, just last week..."

Billy manages to keep his eyes open, but only just. The patter of Goody's voice keeps him awake. He listens closely, but the words seem to slide straight through him. Just the tone — Goodnight's easy twang, and rise and fall of the pitch of his voice as he moves through the story, is enough.

* * *

A few more days and Billy’s strong enough, finally, to leave Rose Creek’s makeshift infirmary. Goody comes to get him in the morning, slings an arm under his shoulders and helps him up the hotel stairs to their shared rooms.

The first thing Billy thinks to say is, in privacy, finally, "I thought you were dead."

Goodnight grins, but he looks pained. "Thought I was, too, for a while there. Thought

* * *

you

* * *

weren't gonna pull through." He helps Billy down to the end of the bed. "Couple days there, looked like you weren't fixin' to wake up. Miss Cullen had to kick me outta the makeshift infirmary as I was apparently in quite the state."

Easy to pretend it's the laudanum making warmth curl through him at imagining Goody at his bedside, waiting for him to wake. Billy lies down slowly to stare at the ceiling. Clean sheets, a private room without the nurse or the other wounded men — it's a relief. Easier to let his guard down here, without anyone besides Goody around.

Goody rummages around the room, must be going through their bags. He hears Goody strike a match, and after a moment, Goody sits at the edge of the bed. He offers Billy a cigarette, and Billy props himself up on one arm to take it. The bite of smoke is comforting, familiar.

It could be any town they were in. Any hotel room with low ceilings and sputtering oil-lamps. He and Goody have done this so many times that the memories run together. A room, shared cigarettes, easy quiet. Only the stronger-than-usual tug of laudanum and the nearly forgettable pain in his side reminds Billy that this is Rose Creek they're at, not just any town. And that the last few weeks have been their own strange hell.

Training villagers, digging trenches, raising the church bell. The last uneasy night of drunken sleep before Bogue and his men had arrived. Goody charging back through the din of a battle, just like Billy knew he would.

Goody clears his throat and stands, wanders over to the room's little window. The sun is mostly set, and it's half-dark outside. "Rain coming," Goody says. Then, after awhile, "I should apologize to you." Goody's thumbs are hooked in his belt, and even just seeing him from the back, Billy can tell his expression is probably haunted. "I shouldn'ta left."

Billy stubs out his cigarette. "You came back. Knew you would."

Goody rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. "Yeah, well. Wasn't too certain myself 'til I realized I'd already turned that poor horse around."

Billy feels for Goody's flask inside his jacket pocket. Goody hasn't taken it back yet, and Billy wonders if that's from guilt or if he's forgotten or something like that.

"I dragged you into this, and I was gonna leave you." Goody laughs to himself, short and bitter. "Damned impolite of me if nothin' else."

Which, well — Billy makes his own choices. He'd throw something at Goody if there was anything within reach. "It was the miners," Billy says.

That at least gets Goody to turn around and look at him. He does look haunted, brows drawn down. Goody looks like a scolded dog.

"The..." Billy does his best to think clearly through the opium haze, and he winces. "The miners." Billy gestures for another cigarette, and Goody obliges, lighting one off the end his, which is still burning. "I couldn't leave after that."

Goody's expression is sad and understanding. They haven't talked about it much, what brought Billy to America, what he’s done for money, what drove him to kill men in the employ of the Northern Pacific Railroad and try his luck as a wanted man. He doesn't like talking about it, doesn't want to. Remembering is bad enough; he doesn't want to dredge it up for Goody.

Doesn't need to, either. Goody knows, or at least knows well enough. Knows what moods of Billy's are too dark to lift, what moods Billy can be coaxed out of. Some of it Goody had to learn the hard way, like not waking Billy up from a nightmare — Billy had nearly lopped a knife straight at him. Knows better than to suggest traveling by train.

Goody's the same way about some things. The war — Goody doesn't like talking about it either, for the same reasons, Billy would guess. Goody gets his night terrors, and when he's been drinking too much, when he's high-strung and nervous about something, the voices, too, and seeing things that aren't there. An owl, usually. Of all the things, an owl.

Despite it all, Billy's in high spirits. Bogue is dead, buried in a shallow grave with the rest of his men. He and Goody both survived. It's a better outcome than he had been expecting, all things considered.

"How long are we staying?"

"Hmm?"

Billy gestures with his cigarette: here, the room, Rose Creek, all of it.

"Well, certainly 'til you're better, Billy. Ain't a chance you're fit for riding still laid up."

Billy snorts. The prospect of riding with four holes in his gut isn't a particularly tempting one. "Once this heals, though. What next?"

"Good question. I have no idea."

Billy breathes out smoke, watches it wreathe and dissolve in the air, light gray like clouds carrying rain. His boots are still on, and he should strip before sleeping, but for now, he's not in pain, and the moment is comfortable. He doesn't remember much of his time being sick, but part of him still feels how much time has passed. How long it's been since he was in a private room, how long it's been since he's been able to listen to Goody rattling on and on.

"Figure it's up to you," Goody says. A little quietly, like to himself. "Wherever you go, I'll go."

 _Wherever you go, I'll go._ Billy considers it. It's like a weight off his chest, something he hadn't realized was there that was heavy, too heavy. "Good," he says.

Goody has to help him with his boots before he sleeps. Billy sleeps like he's one of the dead, buried outside Rose Creek, and dreams of nothing besides quiet.

* * *

Billy wakes to the sound of rain on the roof, a big blur of noise. It's nothing but gray outside, dark like dawn or dusk, and for a moment, Billy struggles to remember where he is, why he is where he is. It could be any time at all. He manages to sit up, though it makes everything hurt. Goody's not in the room, but there's a glass bottle of laudanum within reach. White label, red text, cork stopper. Billy traces the skull and crossbones with one finger, uncorks it, drinks.

He doesn't mind the opium haze. Better than the pain, at least. When he'd traveled on his own, before Goody, sometimes it had been the only thing to help him sleep. Just enough to soothe the paranoia, the conviction there had to be someone around the corner, waiting in the hallway, ready to gut him and bring his body in for a cash reward. Used to be a relief when a bounty hunter finally caught up with him. Meant that for at least a week or two, there'd probably be no one else on his trail.

He's not sure how long it is before the door swings open and there's Goody, half-drenched but looking cheerful about it. "Good mornin', Billy, how d'you like this weather?"

At least it's morning. Billy shrugs. "Better weather from indoors," he says. He and Goody have suffered through rain on the road too many times for him to care much about rain if there's a roof over his head.

Goody chuckles to himself. He takes off his hat, runs one hand through his hair. "You up to eat somethin'? I'll get someone to make you some eggs if you'd like."

Billy shrugs again. "Sure."

Goody beams. "Perfect." Disappears back out the door again, whistling as he goes, comes back again after some time has passed with a tin mug and bowl. 

Maybe it's being out of the cramped, dark infirmary, or maybe it's being with Goody — whatever it is, after a few days, Billy feels nearly human again. He and Goody are running low on cigarettes, and there's only so much laudanum left, so it's lucky. He smokes tobacco more than dried opium and drinks more whiskey than tincture.

The village keeps Goody busy. Most mornings and afternoons he helps somewhere or other, patrolling the fields or patching up bullet holes in the walls. Rose Creek seems like an abandoned gold town. It still has the buildings, the storefronts, but not quite the people, not like it should.

Billy wonders sometimes if the villagers think it was worth it. Emma Cullen seems to, and she and Goody seem to set the mood any time they're in a room.

The coffee is bitter, and he barely tastes his food, but at least it’s something in his stomach. Goody runs the dishes back down to the saloon and comes back with a book.

Either Goody or someone else had collected most of Billy’s knives from the bodies of the dead, maybe washed them, too. They’re in his holster, and for most of the morning, Billy examines them, looking for nicks in the edges, bluntness at the tip. Goody mostly reads. It’s pleasant.

* * *

Days pass; Billy gets stronger. Usually he can join Goody in the saloon for dinner without having to lean on him.

It feels wrong, being in one place this long.

Goody's not meant to settle in one place. Not even for this long; their being in Rose Creek for as long as they've been is strange, claustrophobic. It's all well and good to have some place to circle back to. Billy's found himself missing Volcano Springs some afternoons, where everything was dustier but the city was louder, busier, teeming with drunks all too willing to place bets on their friends against a stranger, then too cowed by Goodnight Robicheaux to try and jump Billy once he trounces them.

But they drift, him and Goodnight, from one place to another. Figuring out the lay of the land and how to win enough money to eat well and sleep safely and venture on to the next place down the road.

"Louisiana," Billy says. He swabs the last of his biscuit through the salt pork and beans. Goody looks befuddled. "After this. It's where we should go."

Goody nods and settles against his chair. The saloon isn't as empty as it could be. It's them and some other men, mostly farmhands, and the barkeep is a nervous looking man who keeps glancing at the door. But for a moment, it feels like it's just him and Goody.

"Louisiana. You sure? Up to you."

Billy nods. Swallows. Takes a drink. He can nearly walk without pain now, and he's forcing himself to take it easy. Not walk even when he wants to. The faster he heals, the faster they can leave. "You like it," he says.

"Well, I won't say no." Goody sounds a little wistful. "How long's it been, three, four years? Just about. Go figure." He rambles for awhile, idle things, and Billy’s just glad to listen.

* * *

Three weeks later, they leave.

Emma Cullen sees them off, a handful of the other villagers, too — but mostly Rose Creek is busy, making the most of fall before having to brace for winter. Goody took care of loading up the horses with their bags and other provisions, and Billy spends more time than he needs to that morning sharpening his knives one last time. The holster is worse for wear, and a few of the knives are, too. He'll have to start looking out for replacements, for when these are too battered to be maintained.

It's getting cooler, though they're headed South, where the weather will only get warmer. Once they get to Louisiana, Goody might even roll up his sleeves once and awhile.

Rose Creek slides out of view behind them. When Billy can look over his shoulder and see nothing, it feels him with a reckless sort of relief he doesn't want to think more about.

They ride mostly in silence. Set up camp in the shadow of a cliff structure, not so different from when it had been the group of them, traveling towards Rose Creek, Sam and all the rest. Faraday and Horne. Goody lights two of their last cigarettes, and Billy takes one when offered.

"Glad to be on the move again," Goody admits, poking at the fire.

Billy nods. He pulls out the flask that used to be Goody's and drinks. Gets up. Moves to sit closer to Goody than he needs to, but he could blame the opium or the drink. Passes Goody the flask. Goody laughs, and drinks deep, and passes it back. Billy caps it and pockets it.

"I suppose it's fair you keep that," Goody says, mock-mournful. "Seems right. Apt."

Billy knocks their knees together. 

Apparently that’s all the excuse Goody needs -- he rests his hand on Billy’s knee, waits a moment, Billy holds still. Leans in. It's a sweet kiss, Goody's hands cradling his jaw, sweeter than Billy's accustomed to. They both taste like smoke and whiskey, and Billy could blame the warm in his gut on scar tissue or opium or both, but this time he doesn't need to. Goody pulls away, knocks their foreheads together. "You really want to go to Louisiana?" Rests his hands on Billy’s shoulders a little too tight. His tone is too casual for this line they’ve just crossed, 

Billy shrugs, smirks. "I don't really care. Just wanted to leave." He pulls one of Goody's hands away from his face, holds it, traces the lines of Goody's knuckles. "Where do you want to go?"

"Right now?" Goody's grin is wide and familiar and pleased. "Right now, absolutely nowhere."


End file.
